


wheat but not bread

by screechfox



Series: becoming [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, M/M, Misgendering, Peter Lukas is Terrible, Pre-Canon, Trans Elias Bouchard, Trans Male Character, Trans Peter Lukas, trans author
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:48:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23529412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/screechfox/pseuds/screechfox
Summary: Nothing remains static in Peter's life; not his relationship with Elias, nor his relationship with himself.(A character study of Peter Lukas.)
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas
Series: becoming [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1693153
Comments: 16
Kudos: 106





	wheat but not bread

**Author's Note:**

> i cannot stop making these terrible old bastards trans, someone take this power away from me
> 
> thanks again to the eye horror discord for your support! especial thanks to michael for beta-reading this first chapter for me!

It would be easier if it were just loneliness that motivates Peter, the first time he kills someone. It is, for the most part. That desire to see community and family, all so he can set himself apart from it. Those bright spots of light in windows are as comforting a guide as starlight on the sea.

But it’s not just that. Nothing can ever be that simple in this world.

Peter knows that he’s courting danger, being out on the streets so late at night. For all that he’s tall and he’s long-since cut his hair short, he doesn’t look how he’d prefer. Even he isn’t ignorant enough of wider society to understand that looking like a woman can be a very dangerous thing.

Tonight is not a night where some drunk catcalls him. Tonight is a night where a middle-aged man struggles to get his umbrella open as the rain sets in. He gives Peter a tentative smile, the very essence of someone trying to be non-threatening.

“Would you mind helping me with this, young lady?”

Something snaps in Peter’s thoughts, half panic and half anger. It’s like a rush of ice-cold water down his spine, and he full-body flinches with the unfamiliar force of these feelings. All of Peter’s life has been so muted; content and melancholy in equal measures, and never to extremes. 

This? This feels like drowning.

He hates this man for what he sees, for what he doesn’t see. He hates him for breaking the illusion that Peter is alone on these quiet moonlit streets.

Peter stands tall, puts his hands in his pockets, and takes a deep breath.

“Go away,” he says, his voice hard and unyielding. For the first time in his life, he doesn’t hate the way it sounds. He could get used to this feeling.

And then, of course, the man  _ does _ go away — or Peter does.

Either way, Peter stares at the absence of a person, a slow and shaky smile creeping across his face. He’s alone. There was someone looking at him, thinking they knew him, and now there isn’t. He told them to go away, and one way or another, they went away.

It’s marvellous.

Peter smooths down his shirt, adjusting his jacket so it sits a little more loosely on his body, and then he carries on walking. It’s a beautiful night, and he can savour it for a few more hours yet.

A dinner at the Magnus Institute is Peter’s first real introduction to the esoteric world now laid bare before him. 

Everyone here knows each other already. He watches the movement of the people, all unfamiliar to him, and rejoices in the aching calm that his isolation brings him. He makes conversation on the rare occasions that he is approached, but by and large, he is left to his own devices.

His peace is broken by an old man. At first glance, he looks no different than any of the decrepit academics populating the room, and Peter prepares himself to suffer through more dull pleasantries in the name of maintaining good relations with the other powers.

The old man makes eye contact, and the silver of his gaze pins Peter in place. His mother had warned him about the head of the Magnus Institute. It seems those warnings were justified.

“Ah,” James Wright says, his voice as dry and dusty as his library of statements. “You’re a Lukas, aren’t you? You’ve certainly got the look of one.”

Peter looks down at himself, the steel greys and muted blues of his clothes, the pale skin of his hands gone red where he’s picked at it in restless irritation, and he nods agreeably.

“I imagine I do. That’s how genetics work, at any rate.”

James purses his lips. Peter smiles back, all bland politeness.

“Your mother couldn’t make it?”

“Apparently so.”

James hums to himself, like that makes a great deal of sense. 

“Well. What’s more lonely than standing in the middle of a crowded room where no one knows you, or cares to learn anything about you?”

Peter has to take a moment. He’d known that was his mother’s reasoning, of course he had, but to hear it said out loud so plainly — and by a complete stranger, at that — sets him off-guard.

“Except you,” he hears himself say, numbly trying to shore up any defenses he has.

James chuckles to himself.

“Except me,” he agrees. He holds out one age-lined hand. “James Wright. Head of the Institute.” 

“I’d worked that out already,” Peter replies, grateful for the return to the usual bland rules of polite conversation. “Peter Lukas. Heir to the Lukas family.”

All the other wizened old men Peter has introduced himself to have been doubtful when he mentions his name. Each and every one of them has looked him over in obvious disdain; Peter is certain that it’s only his family’s wealth and influence that stopped any of them making a scene out of it.

James Wright, however, doesn’t do that. He just nods, running a hand through his beard.

“I should be making nice with you, given how much your family contributes to the running of the Institute. But I think you’d prefer that we weren’t talking at all.”

“I— You know my family well, then?”

“Oh, yes.” James smiles, and in the sharp curve of his mouth, Peter can see a hint of the danger his mother warned him about. “We’ve been acquainted for many years now.”

What is Peter supposed to say to that, exactly? James doesn’t seem to expect any response of him, leaning on his cane as he steps away.

“I'll leave you to your people-watching. Wonderful to meet you, Peter.”

The man who Peter sees about his transition has kind eyes, and his hair is dyed a non-threatening pastel blue. Peter hates him from the moment he introduces himself.

Peter blandly recites the answers he’s planned in the months leading up to this.

He gets an offer of a therapist, which he declines, and a promise of another appointment in several months to decide on whether to proceed with medical intervention. They want to be certain that he’s sure, Peter is told, and those words bring another flare of overwhelming anger.

Of course he’s sure. He stole his name from a faded portrait on the walls of Moorland House when he was ten, and his mother gave him a long look before hiring a new tutor who didn’t know Peter as anything but his employer’s quiet young son. Peter has been sure all his life.

Still, he’ll manage. The Tundra can manage at least one voyage in the time before his next appointment; it’s easier to feel secure in yourself when you only have the ocean for company.

The man with the blue hair tries to hand him a set of pamphlets at the end of their meeting.

“A lot of young people like yourself feel quite isolated—” Peter cuts him off with a laugh. He gives him an uncertain look, then smiles back, taking his levity as a positive. “I just wanted to suggest some support groups. It can be good to build a sense of community.”

“I appreciate it,” he says, and in a distant way, he does, “but I really don’t need that.”

“You’re not obliged to go to any of them, but it’s always nice to have options, isn’t it?”

“I said, I don’t need that.”

Forsaken’s power coils underneath Peter’s tongue. He hasn’t tamed it yet, and the fog seeping from his sleeves is icicle-sharp where it bites at any softness it can reach.

“I— Alright.”

“Thank you,” Peter grinds out. Without any fanfare, he slips his coat on and takes his leave.

When he comes back for his appointment several months later, the man with the blue hair has faded into the moth-eaten impression of a person. Still present in the world, oh yes, but he must have found all of that community he prized so highly drying up around him. 

He doesn’t try and suggest that Peter go to a support group again.

**Author's Note:**

> as always, you can find me at [screechfoxes](http://screechfoxes.tumblr.com/) on tumblr. have a good day!


End file.
